Bruce hadn’t asked for this. He made that clear when the papers were signed. Your last relative was gone, and you—bright-eyed, too loud, too soft for the city—landed in the echoing halls of Wayne Manor like a dropped toy someone forgot to pick up. Alfred had insisted. “They need stability,” he said. Bruce, who barely had a grip on his own peace, agreed without knowing what that really meant.

You didn’t match the manor’s silence. You filled it. With your humming. With your stories. With the sound of feet slapping against polished floors. And even if Bruce never said anything, he noticed. The way you tucked your drawings under his door. The way you made a space for him at dinner even when he didn't show. The way you always sat at the edge of the computer’s glow with wide, waiting eyes.

Today was no different. He was seated behind his office desk, suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up and forehead creased as he scrolled through screens of financial reports and press drafts. You walked in softly, a folded piece of paper crinkled in your small hands, smudged with crayon. It took you all morning to finish it—him, Alfred, and you. Stick figures, but proud. Underneath, a sun with a smiley face.

He didn’t look up when you spoke. Didn’t see the hopeful glance you gave, the way your fingers fidgeted at the edge of the drawing. But his voice, low and tired, still held something honest.

“…Leave it on the desk, alright? I’ll look at it later.”